


Early Life

by deltaSpositive



Series: Lestrade [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltaSpositive/pseuds/deltaSpositive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life of teen Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lestrade

When I was a kid, I never really gave much thought about my surname. Everyone just called me Lestrade, probably because it sounded a lot cooler than Greg, and it became a natural thing to me.

It was not until I was ten that I realized my surname probably had a French origin. In my home town of Little Harhurst, there was the Pier, an abandoned dock where my friends and I sometimes hung out when we had nothing to do. One stormy day, the events of which I still remember quite clearly, I was gallivanting on the pier and climbing the metal railings just above the turbulent grey water when my best friend, Tom, yelled my name from very far away and said something about a giant salmon he caught. Eager to see one, I quickly pulled myself up and clambered back onto the wooden planks, but by the time I stood on the pier my friends were already nowhere to be seen. 

"Your father is French?" An old man standing a few meters away asked, with an accent that I now recognize as French. He seemed to be one of the those lonely old men who just liked to stand at the seaside for a good few hours with no reason at all.

"Sorry, what?" I asked loudly, not quite hearing what he said over the sound of the raging sea waves slapping against the wooden pier.

"Lestrade, that's a French surname," he shouted over the noise of wind and waves, staring at the stormy sea.

I stood there for a second, allowing the salty sea breeze to billow my shabby clothes and blinking my eyes stupidly. Then, oh.

Later that night, I asked my mother whether my father was French or not. She was cooking beans in that drab and dingy kitchen at the time - even now the smell of cooked beans was redolent of the good old days - and she told me she wasn't sure. I have never thought about the issue again after that.

My mother was the kindest, strongest, and most loving woman I have ever known. I was the result of a one-night-stand, and on the two occasions that she met my father - one was the night she slept with him and the other was the day when she told my father about me - all she managed to gather from him was that his surname was Lestrade and that he had a wife.

Raising me on her own was no easy task, considering that we were living in Little Harhurst and she had to keep me from going too bad. Everyday she would have to get up at five and work until nine in the evening, and after that she would still have to cook and do the laundry until I was old enough to perform these tasks for her. Despite the poor living conditions and the hard work, she never complained and was a great mum. She would listen to me, talk to me, teach me lessons of life, and always forgive me. I strive to follow her as my example.

She said I inherited my father's good looks, and joked that I would have no problem finding a wife when I grew up. That was true in some way, and I had no problem attracting women. But I guess I have to thank my mother for passing me her genes; I don't develop relationships with people just so I could have sex with them.

Sherlock has offered me once to check up my father's identity with Mycroft's resources. I wasn't interested myself, since he was not part of my life, but I let him do the search anyway because he seemed keen. However, there were never any results. Perhaps my father was a spy and Lestrade was a fake identity. Or perhaps he was already dead and Sherlock didn't want to hurt me. Either way, I really couldn't care less. Gregory Lestrade is my name, and it will remain so.


	2. Little Harhurst

To all parents: Little Harhurst is not a good place to raise your kid.

A small city parish in Somerset, Little Harhusrt had had its history as one of the pioneers of the second industrial revolution. Its unique geographical location, which allowed easy access for big ships and convenient export to the many big cities, made it a prime place for factories to set up. For quite a time, Little Harhurst had been the envy of many other coastal cities.

But good days didn't last long. The development of other coastal cities, as well as the gradual change of economy of the country, slowly deprived this little city parish of its former glory. Companies left, and investments turned away, leaving the residents in an abandoned wastedump of empty factories and useless machines.

In the early 60s, the government decided to take pity and revive the stagnant old town. A lot of tourist attractions, like small piers, beaches, theme parks, resort hotels etc. were built in an effort to drastically change the old slump into a brand new tourism hot spot. The plan was good, and everyone was excited, but all seemed to have forgotten that this was basically a toxic wasteland of contaminated water and soil. Some reporters found out about it, and soon all the papers were ranting about the pollution in the area, about how it would poison people. No one was willing to come after that. The city was then left to rot on its own devices.

Little Harhurst is a city without vitality. I am not talking about an aging population or old infrastructure, which are both less of a problem than the one I am implying, but the lack of soul in its metaphorical sense. The whole city is draped over by an air of lethargy and toxicity, drowning and suffocating any sparks of ideas and imagination. Grey smog permeates the air like marijuana fume, rendering people listless and vacuous. It is like standing in the middle of a murky swamp: you are unable to pull yourself out, stuck, and completely lost in the boundless bed of stinky mud.

Being born here, I didn't have any ambition or aim. All I knew was where all the good hang out spots were, and when to go home to avoid trouble. When I was older, I just added "flirting" to the list. Everyday, it was just school, gallivanting around, even more gallivanting around, dinner at home, and sleep. On weekends, I would be slightly more productive, like helping out my mum in the kitchen or doing some part-time jobs at the local fast food shop.

The abandoned warehouse a good fifteen minutes walk away from school was where my friends and I hung out together every day afterschool. We usually just called it "The Hub", since there was this large neon sign saying "Hudson's Snax n' Sarnies" at the main entrance. Tom originally suggested calling it "The Hud", but some guy came up with the idea of changing the consonant at the end and we thought it was cool. We've called it The Hub forever since.

There were not many things to do inside The Hub. The whole wareshouse was empty except for a very big and rusty machine. I suspected it was something to make dough, but some thought it was to make jam. Either way, it must have processed some food as it was inhabited by mice the first day we found the Hub. We cleared away the rodents and later turned it into our mascot of some sort. The guardian of the Hob, as Tom liked to call it.

The only good thing about Little Harhurst was that there were so many places for us to hang out. We could sometimes roam about the abandoned industrial area, or we could go down to the seaside and hang out on the piers. There was also the ferris wheel, a rusty iron structure lost in the wild outgrowth outside the city centre.

When we were younger, we just climbed up and down all those facilities and took turns playing the role of captain. It changed into smoking, discussions of sex, and beer during adolescence. Usually, we did these in secluded areas where adults were absent, but even if we blatantly smoked on the streets when we were fifteen, people just turned a blind eye. It was too common and they didn't care.

Apart from the mindless wandering, Tom and I would sometimes stay over at my place to hang out. That was usually when most of the group was busy and only a few of us were left. I had known Tom since five, when his dad left his alcoholic mum and moved in with him next doors. Since his dad was at home most of the time dealing with his business, we usually spent the day at my place.

There was not much for us to do in the house: It's just lying around and watching crap telly and doing stupid stuff. Sometimes he would stay for dinner, if my mum was home. She was quite fond of him and treated him like me. After dinner he would usually leave and go home.

"You should probably get a job, Gregory," My mum said to me one day after Tom left. I nodded.

Life in Little Harhurst was pretty much like that.


	3. School

It should come as no surprise that my memory of school is vague: it's just a place for us to stay during the day, and the teachers didn't seem to be more mindful than us. The primary school I went to was a small, brick building located at the outskirts of the city. All the students there, like me, came from poor families. I was probably the most well-mannered of all, since my mum was born in a pretty wealthy family and she was adamant on my manners. But still, the whole lot of us were just a bunch of unruly and rebellious hooligans who spent most of the lesson time outside school.

Despite the hazy memory, there was, however, an incident at school in grade five that I could never forget.

It was the first day of the new school term, and we had a new teacher in our class.

"Next, Greg," Mr. Doyle, the new teacher, looked up from the name list and called my name, signalling me to come forward and collect some papers. Paperwork again, I groaned to myself. I pushed back my chair lazily to get up, thinking about whether to skip school that day. First day at school was usually meaningless anyway. I didn't notice Tom, who was sitting a row behind me, had suddenly stood up.

"It's Lestrade, sir. No one calls him Greg," he said. I turned around and gave him a quizzical look. There were a few laughter from the classroom.

The new teacher, probably because he was not accustomed to the people and culture here, thought Tom was being funny. "If I were to call Greg by his surname, I would say Mr. Lestrade," he said, staring at Tom from under his spectacles, "Please sit down, Tom."

But Tom wasn't sitting. "But we all call him Lestrade, sir. You don't need to address him as mister; he's just a scallywag," Tom said and grinned at me. I flipped him off in return.

In hindsight, Tom really should have chosen his words more carefully. "I certainly do not need your professional opinion on how I call people," Mr. Doyle sneered, his temper rising, "But of course I don't expect rascals like you to know what proper manners are."

"Oh yeah?" Tom straightened himself and glared at the old man, "Is calling me a rascal the proper manners mummy taught you, huh?"

"Manners don't apply to the lowest class," Mr. Doyle spat, squinting his eyes dangerously, "I don't do manners with barking dogs."

The boy was short and skinny, but he really could shout out loud, "If I am dog, what are you then, a fucking tosser?"

"Get out!" Mr. Doyle suddenly barked, slamming his hand hard onto the desk and causing the girl next to me to jump slightly. "LEAVE. NOW!"

But he had triggered the bull dog tenacity in my old friend, and the boy remained standing at his desk, not moving an inch and staring daggers at the fuming man.

Up till now, I still have no idea why I had the courage to speak up at that moment. I probably wasn't thinking. Or maybe I wanted to commit suicide. "Look," I stood up suddenly, ignorant of the surprised looks, and shrugged,"I am cool with both names, Mr. Doyle. I really am. It doesn't matter if you call me Greg or Mr. Lestrade, I am cool as long as you don't call me by my middle name." I smiled weakly, hoping to ease the tension. After a few moments of deadly silence, during which I started to realize what had just happened and my legs started to wobble in fear, one classmate who knew me well whistled while another called out, "Well said, Rupert!" A few of the other classmates followed suit and laughed, some softly, others more boldly. Soon, like a ripple effect, everyone in the room seemed to be less tense and smiling.

Mr. Doyle's redness in his cheeks slowly faded away, while Tom relaxed his clenched fists slightly, slowly uncurling the tightly held fingers into a more neutral posture. What happened next was both unimportant and forgotten, but I still remember the moment when he walked out of the classroom with his head held high.

The great relief at that moment, when both of them made a step backwards, was something I felt after every confrontation scene, when the criminal being held at gun point finally drops down his weapon and surrenders. Perhaps that's why I love police detective work.

Such is the memory of school life. I don't remember the classes, nor the maths I learned. Life was just bland and meaningless.


	4. Monkeys

Editor's words:

  This is Sherlock Holmes. I guess you have no idea why I am writing in my own perspective (which you people always do; how can you be so clueless all the time?), although the reason is obvious: The event I am going to describe, which is pivotal to understanding Gregory Lestrade fully, happened in my own perspective.

  It started as another ordinary day. John and I had just solved a case involving bloody rubber bands (see John's blog if you want a romanticized account of the story, which John creatively named it The Bloody Rubber Bands), and I was drinking my breakfast tea when John suddenly looked up from his paper and asked me something.

  "Monkeys?"

  "Generally refers to the 260 species in a paraphyletic group under the suborder Haplorhini. In simple words, stupid creatures," I replied with a dismissive wave.

  "Haha. You know bloody well what I am asking, Sherlock." He put down his paper and looked at me.

  "Then maybe you ought to elaborate your question a bit longer than one word, since last time I checked the word 'monkey' isn't a question."

  "Fine. Why does Lestrade like monkeys?"

  I was flummoxed for a moment. "Lestrade... monkeys?"

  "Sherlock, stop acting. There is no way you don't know about this."

  I rolled my eyes. "Oh, am I a mind reader now? How am I supposed to know that he likes monkeys?"

  "I just thought... okay, never mind." He picked up himself and walked to the kitchen.

  I thought for a moment. "Did Molly tell you that?"

  "Yes," he replied as he put on the kettle, "Said she was dissecting a monkey when Greg walked into the morgue and commented he liked monkeys."

  The incident lurked at the back of my mind until I saw Greg the next day on another case. I asked him when I had finished my examaination of the body and was standing on the sidewalk next to him.

  "Monkeys."

  Greg shrugged casually. "Yeah, I like them."

  "Why? You don't particularly like dogs and cats and have a general distaste for sloths. Why would monkeys be an exception?"

  "That's because the sloth was in my bedroom!"

  "Well, your flat was convenient for a temporary deposition."

  The salt and pepper haired detective ignored me and stared blankly at the crime scene for a moment. "Well... I don't know. Maybe because they are smart? Cute little bastards though."

  Then he smiled at me thoughtfully before walking off briskily.

***

  My love for monkeys is inexplicable. I just love them, irrationally, like many other things in my life. Those cute and mischeivous little bastards populated the woods next to the city - they thrived there, but not many people seemed to be aware of their existence. Sometimes I strolled to the woods just so I could see them.

  The bastards were smart. They knew how to use some simple tools like rocks and sticks, and they knew whether I brought food to them or not. On the days when I had my bag, I hadn't needed to walk more than a few steps before I heard the rustling of leaves. Then several pairs of olive black eyes, big and round, would stare at me from the top of the trees. It was so quick that I always thought they had a guard or something that constantly watched the spot where I entered the woods. Apparently it knew what a bag meant too.

  The contents of the bag was usually stuff I got from the dumpsters behind the groceries store: rotten bananas, oranges, apples... All sorts of fruits that had expired. Occasionally I would bring along a piece of bread left over from lunch - they nearly fought over the special prize every time, and I would just laugh and give it to the skinniest member of the monkey family.

   I loved just lying on the grass and watching the monkeys go through their daily routines. In some ways they were just like us, like scratching their backs and yawning and picking their nails. Somehow watching the monkey families do their own things was unexpectedly calming. The trees provided a very good shelter from the sun, and soft grass made up for quite a comfy bed. Every afternoon like this was relaxing and soothing, and it gave me a rare chance to find peace in Little Harhurst.

  No one knew about it. Not even Tom and my mum. It's not that I didn't trust them, but that the lazy sunday afternoons were the only times I could retreat into my own little world with privacy, completely alone. It's like an oasis amidst a choking desert, breathing life into my lungs whenever the outside world became too tiring.

  The practice of sneaking into the woods and watching the monkeys carried throughout my early life. This practice stopped after I left Little Harhurst, as although I missed the monkeys there, I had promised myself never to turn back to the depressing neighborhood of Little Harhurst. Now, fifty years have passed, yet still not once have I ever set foot in that particular area of the woods again. Yes, I still miss them, and enough time has passed that I am not afraid of revisiting the old town anymore. I still wonder whether the monkeys will have the same friendly attitude towards me as their parents had, or whether they even exist anymore. But I have never tried to find out. The monkeys belong to my memory of the distant past, and I have no wish to trample upon the beautiful dream.


End file.
